People want to hear about carnage and gore. That’s why we had the Coliseum all those years ago, right? People want to watch from high up in the stands while those in the sand are bathed in blood. It’s a spectacle, it’s a thrill, it’s a feeling of “boy, I’m sure glad that isn’t me!”. But it could be.
I see a young woman who was hit by a car (which just kept going after hitting her, natch) while she was on her way home from volunteering at this very hospital. Now, instead of stocking rooms and guiding visitors, she’s writhing and screaming on a bed. Wouldn’t you scream too if you could see your own bones tearing through your skin?
I see a homeless man, one in a sea of John Does, with glazed eyes pointing at the ceiling and his chest sliced open. The doctor is wrist-deep in this man’s chest, manually stimulating his heart but to no avail since the knife went straight into his vena cava. I remember sitting in my college dorm a year ago looking at a heart diagram. I was so comfortable with my legs tucked underneath me, a mug full of hot cocoa in my hand. Now I’m face to face with this man’s open chest. Vena cava. Aorta. Don’t confuse them. Pay attention. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. He’s dead. They’re calling it. Don’t throw up. Everyone in the room can guess it’s my first death since I’m the rookie. I compensate for this by being extra cheery the rest of my shift. I will not let them for a second think I am weak.
I see a man who had a traumatic brain injury twenty years ago and is now under his sister’s care. The sister insists her brother is fine and is merely being “difficult”. She says that he just needs a quick abdominal fluid drainage so they can go home. She becomes annoyed by the wait and goes home, leaving the patient alone. She says to “stick him on the bus” when we’re done. The doctor asks the patient his name. The patient holds up three fingers and mumbles “three”. He takes a piece of gum out of his pocket and hands it to me, patting my hand. I thank him and smile while a lump forms in my throat. Don’t cry. Breathe in. Breathe out. It’s the end of my shift and as I’m walking to get my bag the doctor stops me. He asks me to update the patient’s chart because he ran away before the social worker could see him and now the cops need to look for him since he’s incapable of looking after himself. He’s out there by himself, belly swollen and hurting, confused. The words escape my mouth before I have a chance to think about them: “what the fuck, seriously?” It’s a dangerous moment and I avert the doctor’s eyes, my face burning hot. So much for not being weak. He puts a hand on my shoulder and walks away. I feel the gum’s weight in my pocket. I update the chart, clock out, go to the parking garage, drive five blocks, and deem it safe to cry. I hope he’s okay. I can’t believe I just made an ass out of myself like that. I hope he’s okay.
I see myself in my mirror, smokey eye makeup, curling my hair before a night out with friends. It’s the first time I’m seeing them since I started this new job. I put on music to pump myself up. Good lord, do my feet hurt. Did they ever find him?
“What’s the worst thing you’ve seen in the ER?” she asks while we wait for our other friends. I tuck my hair behind my ear and look down.
“Some dude tore the skin off the top of his penis.”
“Whoa! No way!”
I take a swig of my beer. That’s enough of that.
This piece was originally published on Medium. I've been working in the ER for a month now and needed to unload some of these feelings.